Flight
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: A short piece about Sherlock set after The Space Around Me.


Sherlock balanced himself carefully in the door of his flat, arms braced in his crutches, looking down the stairs. It had been several days now since the doctors had freed him from the walking cast he'd been forced to wear for two and a half weeks. While it was an improvement over the fiberglass cast he'd worn in the hospital and for a short while after, he'd still hated it. In his opinion, the thing was useless in a London winter. He could walk about his flat, certainly, and anywhere indoors, but when outdoors, he was reduced to the crutches again. It was that, or come home with one soaking wet foot.

But now…

He grinned. He often found himself grinning these days, at everything. John accused him of smuggling morphine back from the hospital, but who needed that? How to express to John that waking up every day and seeing his face made Sherlock feel high? Every little detail was cherished. There were times he could not sleep, so absorbed in just watching John, memorizing every millimetre of his face, every shift in expression.

Everything was much clearer, it seemed. Sherlock often wondered if Moriarty had any idea – certainly the man knew Sherlock could see again, but did he understand how much more passion Sherlock had for his work now? There was a deep-seated sense of satisfaction inside of Sherlock; the other man's days were numbered, but only Sherlock knew that. The whole pattern hadn't become clear to him yet, and Moriarty was certainly a player he could not wholly anticipate, but nor could Moriarty predict Sherlock's movements. And he had made a mistake, threatening John. Sherlock had something more important than the love of the game and the desire to win. He had _reasons _to win.

Right now, though, he had a more present, demanding enemy.

He went to physio three times a week now, but it had been every day in the hospital. John made him do his exercises and stretches every night, under a watchful eye, and Sherlock did not tell him that he did them himself, in the mornings, after John left. It was nice to have John watch him, frankly, and the more he worked his leg, the sooner he would regain his strength.

But there was this one thing.

He looked down the dimly lit stairwell. The stairs to 221B were steep and he negotiated them with difficulty on the days when he left the flat. John would wait, patiently, at the top or bottom of the stairs, and Sherlock would attempt not to growl in frustration. When his brother sent someone round to take him to physio, if John was at work (and really, did Mycroft's people have nothing better to do?), Sherlock made sure he was waiting in the entry before they arrived.

This morning, he shook off his crutches and put them against the wall, leaning on the top banister. He glared down at the staircase, then took the railings, stepping with his good right leg first, then his left, wincing slightly. One step at a time, both feet on the same step, like a child. By degrees, he made his way to the bottom landing, gripping the banisters tightly. When he reached the bottom, he turned and climbed back up, slowly, making sure to keep his breathing regular. Occasionally, he still felt twinges from his mending ribs when he took a deep breath, but these he ignored.

At the top, he turned round and went down again. Two more times up and down doing two feet per step, then he tried one step in sequence. It was much more difficult, and he leaned to the right a lot more than he liked, but he kept going, finding a rhythm for himself. After seven times like that, he went a bit faster, which was harder, because his left leg shied at taking the weight at first, but he set his jaw against that. His physiotherapist had warned about favouring his bad leg, both consciously and unconsciously, which he wanted to avoid.

He kept going until he was out of breath then stopped a few seconds at the top, hands on his knees. Grinning, Sherlock grasped the banisters again and went down. Each time, it got easier, if only a tiny bit, but it was enough. At the bottom of the stairs, he turned and started again, forcing himself to rely less on his hands and put more weight on each of his legs. It was tiring, and he could feel the underused muscles in his left leg beginning to protest, but he pushed on, heading back up once more.

With three steps left to go, he gave a burst of energy and clattered up them, pushing himself off of the handrails at the top and collapsing into a laughing heap on the landing outside of his flat. He grinned at his crutches, which lay where he'd left them against the wall, and heard a door opening downstairs. Sherlock swung himself to seated, feet resting on the second stair, as Mrs. Hudson came round the corner, looking up at him.

"Gracious, Sherlock, what are you doing?" she enquired.

He grinned down at her, still chuckling.

"Winning," he replied.


End file.
